From The Inside
by Michelle H. C. Zhu
Summary: Raiden and Jetstream Sam. An accidental encounter with a half-drunk Samuel Rodrigues one night ends up in a sparring match.


_**A/N:**__ Written in present-tense, first POV like I am wont to do when I'm lazy and overwhelmed with work. The result is awkwardly phrased sentences, uneven pacing, gods in machines, and purple prose and I am so sorry but all my brainpower been used up from writing essays. _

* * *

For a cyborg ninja, it's ironic that Raiden does most of his tours during the daytime, under the open sunlight. He fancies himself as a master of stealth, but inconspicuousness proves to be difficult when you're a hulking 300-something pounds of military-styled tech and machinery walking down the sidewalk.

Raiden doesn't do night times. He doesn't like the dark. He doesn't like sleeping during night and he doesn't like being awake during the night either.

Raiden is wrapped up to the mandible in a long, black trenchcoat that conceals his bulky frame the same way a garbage bag slips over a microwave: awkwardly-shaped, with sharp corners jutting out of the covering. The derby smothers most of his white hair, and if he tips the hat in just the right way, it can sort of conceal his eyepatch as well. He's the spitting image of those shady rapists who pull girls into dark alleyways. On the optimistic side, that means less people will bother him.

The darkness is one thing Raiden does know how to blend in with. He's trying to avoid trouble. He doesn't want to blow off steam. He doesn't want to instigate fights. He just wants to pass the time until dawn to keep his wandering mind off things. So when Raiden does run into trouble, namely, Denver police, the first thing that registers in his brain is to escape.

Dashing into a nearby passage between two buildings, Raiden quickly scans the area. Left. Right. No viable hiding spaces, which leaves… up. He grabs the first rung of a nearby hanging ladder and quickly leaps up onto the fire escape. Quietly as possible, he bounds to the top of the building, landing at last on the rooftop. He peers over the edge. The authorities sniff at the alley Raiden swerved into for several moments—then they're gone.

"Running from someone?" a familiar voice comments, elegantly accented with a distinct Brazilian accent.

It takes every fiber of rational thought in Raiden's brain to detain his body from somersaulting backwards in some battlefield impulse of dodging an incoming enemy's attack. Still, the identity of the voice is enough to warrant Raiden reeling around with his blade unsheathed and pointing laser lines at the enemy. There is no shortage of the hardest resentment in Raiden's tone as he growls out the name of his rival: "Jetstream."

Samuel Rodrigues is sitting on his ass, lounging in an ambiance of drunken airiness. The culprit is a half-drained bottle he's clutching at the neck. Sam isn't terribly drunk, but the effects of alcohol still manifest in the way he sits, the way he talks. His posture is more relaxed than usual, almost so that he's slouching into himself. His voice has a slight slur to it and that smartass attitude he always hauls around seems a bit toned down from usual.

Sam's expression is hard to perceive, but the tilt of his head conveys a sense of curiosity.

"…Jack?" Sam drapes a hand over his mouth and chuckles into it. "…no kidding? Of all the rooftops you could've chosen to land on…"

There's something about the Brazilian's tone that suggests he wants to comment, '_nice hat_'.

So perhaps Sam wasn't out to ambush him. Raiden's grip on his sword still doesn't loosen; he was amputated the last time he let his guard slip around the samurai.

"What are you doing here?" Raiden snarls back in his causal snarl.

Raiden has always been super-jealous at how Sam's accent can make every word that leaves his lips sound crisp, silky, and perfectly articulated. Raiden can't decide how his own voice should sound half the times. His normal voice is what he uses when talking to friends and family and African prime ministers in limousines. Raiden puts an effort into making his voice gruffer when he's conversing with enemies, like turret tanks grinding over gravel.

Then there's his Ripper voice. His Ripper voice is the hardest one to affect. Digging through the dark pit that is his memory, Raiden channels the timbre of Hollywood actors depicting rugged war heroes and combines it with the sounds he's heard on the battlefield (_screaming, nasalized groans, the stagnate bubbling of intestines pooling from a severed torso_)—the result is some guttural, retching fuck-noise that erupts from the base of his throat, halfway torn between beast and devil.

(In his spare time, Raiden practices his Ripper voice to make sure it sounds extra-menacing.)

"Me?" Sam gestures around. "I should be asking you that question. I'm not the one escaping from the police onto random rooftops and pointing my sword at civilians."

The cyborg's gaze narrows. "Right… I'd hardly call you a civilian."

Sam waves off Raiden's menacing air of belligerence. "Please… it's off hours. I just want to relax, Jack. And I don't really fancy the bars in Denver…"

…so he's drinking right out of the bottle, alone on a rooftop on a Wednesday night. Raiden feels as if his intelligence is being covertly insulted by such a shanty excuse.

"Save it, Jetstream." Raiden bares his teeth. "I ought to end your life right here. I've got more than enough justification after all the shit you've pulled."

Sam chuckles ruefully. "Wishful thinking, Jack. Now isn't the time nor is it the place."

Schlepping off his disguise in one quick tug, Raiden shifts into a battle pose, hauling his sword up to shoulder height. "Yeah, 'cause that's never stopped me before."

Sam makes a gesture with his arm, and for a moment, it almost looks as if he's inviting Raiden take a seat next to him—but no, it's just some meaningless drunken arm-flapping, or at least that's what Raiden construes it as. The Brazilian doesn't even make an attempt to reach for the weapon hanging from his hip, which sends exasperation coursing through Raiden's artificial veins. Even if this asshole robbed him of body parts, Raiden did have standards—he didn't kill unarmed men without at least giving them a chance to defend themselves first.

_How drunk is this bastard?_

"You got a woman at home, Jack?"

Sam's crocked, but his question takes Raiden aback nonetheless. That is a brazen step into personal territory, and Raiden didn't normally disclose personal information to people whose life blood he would eventually be wiping off his blade.

"What's it to you," Raiden snarls, his voice trying for intimidation as his fingers tightens around the sword's hilt. He has always been protective over Rosemary and his family in general—moving them to New Zealand was a testament to that.

Even drunk, Sam is the master of psychological warfare. "That's a no, I'll take it? Just hookers and whores at local brothels, then?"

"_Fuck_ _you_," the words comes out automatically, Raiden's pride grated by affront. "That's none of your business."

Raiden's harsh comeback prompts a raised eyebrow from Sam. "No, I suppose it's not…" He grins anyway, hoisting his bottle a few inches as if in toast to his rival's familial success. A quick swig and then: "But if you _are_ married, then I congratulate you for being a real family man… That's good… good for you…"

Sam sounds neither mordant nor mocking, and Raiden allows himself a brief moment to reflect on Sam's words.

It was. It was good for him. Rosemary and little John were Raiden's moral and mortal anchors: because of them, Raiden had a home to go back to and a reason to fight; because of them, Raiden started to fear death once again. They chained him down, because that was exactly what Raiden needed.

"As for me," Sam continues, breaking into Raiden's musings, "I never settled down."

Raiden's immaturity tugs at him to make a snide remark about Sam's sexuality, but the urge is ignored. Raiden goes for a noncommittal "_hn_" instead, his eye shifting to the side in disinterest.

"Marriage requires that a man give up his selfishness," Sam says, fingering the neck of the bottle. "It's never something I could do, being the greedy bastard I am. No lady deserves a man like me." Before Raiden's facial muscles can contort into an expression of disbelief, Sam turns the tables on him. "What about you, Jack? Why did you marry your wife?"

An instant snap back— "_What?_"

Sam eases into a lighthearted chuckle as he casts his drink aside. He slowly rises to his feet, his sheath clanking as it adjusts to the new position. "Come on now… I cut out your eye, not your ears…"

Raiden is suddenly even more hyper-aware of Sam's presence now that the man is standing up. Sam traipses to the side and Raiden mirrors his movements, keeping them at an equal arm's length of one another. For all of that foolish drunk-talk he'd spewed, Sam sure as hell didn't walk like he's intoxicated, which alerts Raiden that the Brazilian may have been affecting his persona this entire time.

"Answer the question, Jack," Sam drawls lazily, his eyes still twinkling in the good nature of a camaraderie they didn't share. "Why did you marry your wife? Surely for more than just love. It's never that simple with people like you and I…"

"_Jetstream_." Raiden's words are tense, almost bitten off. "I'm only going to warn you once. You better tread _very carefully_ on this subject." —_I have killed people with my bare hands for less than what you're saying right now._

Sam laughs and shrugs his shoulders. "Why so defensive, Jack? It should be an easy enough answer."

_Don't listen to him—_

"_**Sam…**_" Raiden growls threateningly.

Sam flashes a shit-eating grin, evaluating Raiden's response with a rub of his stubble. The asshole is far too insight for his own good, far too skillful at reading people. "Yes… I see now… so your wife is just another prop to keep you in check. She's yet another tool to keep the 'Ripper' from coming out to play, the alcohol bottle you crawl into at night to drown out your troubles…"

The fact that a half-intoxicated Sam could calculate the exact angle and trajectory of Raiden's incoming slash and block it with his Muramasa was a remarkable feat indeed. Raiden is seething in white-hot rage and Sam just smirks.

"Always itching for a fight, eh, Jack?" he breathes with a slight lilt of the head. A tinge of malice seeps back into Sam's eyes, diluting the drunken amicability with a drop of lethal clarity.

Like lightning, the Brazilian lunges forward and rams an elbow into Raiden's solar plexus. Raiden is knocked back, his next instinct being to dodge the steel ribbon of crimson red that comes rippling towards him at bullet speed. Sam had silently proposed an armistice for tonight, but to hell with that if Raiden is so desperate to brawl on a deserted rooftop. It's not like the police are coming back if they throw a ruckus or anything. (Even if they were, Sam would slice them up for interfering; Armstrong can always get more, whatever.)

Raiden knows from the get-go this fight isn't going to be their final confrontation. For one, it's not epic enough. Second, Sam already has a handicap; he's drunk, even if he's not _that_ drunk, and though this son of a bitch is responsible for ripping out Raiden's eye and chopping off his arm, Raiden still feels he needs to honor the warrior's code to a honorable fight.

Sam's technique is sharp as ever, but his spatial orientation is a bit off; it's evident in the breadth of his swings, his reach slightly overextended from the target in question, i.e. Raiden. Not like this does anything to stop Sam from being a formidable enemy. No amount of alcohol could dull Sam's skills to such a point where Raiden wouldn't feel threatened in a confrontation with the samurai… unless maybe Sam boozed to the point of unconsciousness in which Raiden would gut him open like a pig.

Sam is actually_ good_, unlike those other lackey soldiers, which means Raiden doesn't have any time or openings to perform his acrobatic ninja break-dancing moves. With Sam, Raiden actually has to wield his sword like a normal person—with his hands—in order to focus on blocking and parrying the Brazilian's razor-quick attacks. The man's near teleportation-esque agility and fearsome strength were things a few of Raiden's former rivals could boast to eclipse.

From an appreciators' standpoint, Sam's sword-style is truly a superb one—an eclectic fusion of Japanese swordplay, judo, and capoeira. Most of the hits Sam gets in aren't even from his blade. The blows that actually do make contact are the non-lethal ones: a kick to the flank, the pommel of the Murasama slammed into Raiden's abdomen. If Raiden still possessed his internal organs, he bet they'd all have been liquefied by now from the sheer force that is behind every one of Sam's blows.

Sam is having the time of his life; Raiden is just getting more and more pissed with each passing second.

An undefined block of time passes before the two warriors finally break apart and take a mutually-needed respite. Sam's forehead glistens with sweat, his ponytail ragged with slips of hair blowing loosely around his face. Sam rests his blade in the supinated palm of his hand like it's a golf club and he's talking to his at-the-golf-course-on-Sunday buddy.

"Not bad, blondie! In terms of pure skill, you aren't half-bad at all!" He's 50% condescending, 50% warrior admiration. "In fact, I could even say you improved since our last encounter!" Sam's grin eases into critique. "Nevertheless, your blade… it lacks something."

"Yeah," Raiden responds gruffly, his pose the polar opposite to Sam's relaxed demeanor. "Your jugular wrapped around it."

Amusement curls around Sam's face, settling into the creases under his cheeks. "Those are some powerful words coming from an amateur. You don't have what it takes to beat me." Sam's glowing blade creates a semi-arc in the air as he flips it to the opposite side, away from his body.

Sam has this peculiar quality to him, Raiden realizes. Sam wields his weapon like it's an extension of his arms, moving it with him as he speaks. He gesticulates with it, flicking it this way and that, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum, whipping it full 360s like a long-chained pocket watch. All of these movements articulate the tiny nuances in Sam's mood and intentions from the way he holds the sword, the angle of his sway, whether his grip is loose or firm on the hilt. Effacing the line between the weapon and the wielder's body—it's a mark of a master swordsman.

Sam uses his sword to sweep the world around him. "Lay it clean, Jack _the Ripper_. You love the thrill of battle, don't you? Why deprive yourself of this feeling?"

A phantom déjà vu sensation creeps up Raiden's vertebrae as they head into this familiar uncomfortable territory. Raiden can boast shit about his beliefs all he wants to Kevin and Courtney over the codec, but inside Raiden knows that he'll blindly follow the big N on his moral compass without checking which direction he's heading in. Perhaps that's why Raiden has always been open to confrontation; it's his way of validating his beliefs. When the opposing party is a spineless cadaver on the ground, Raiden's the automatic winner by default. There's no analyzing moral conundrums, no cross-examinations of the other party's story, none of that complicated and messy nonsense.

Except Sam refuses to become hamburger no matter how much Raiden chops at him in a zandatsu frenzy, which means Sam's mere existence threatens the foundation of everything Raiden has built his current life around.

"What do you plan to achieve from reining in your sword?" Sam comments rhetorically, tapping his temples for emphasis, "You think it'll cleanse you of your past kills? Wash away the blood of former victims?"

It disturbs Raiden that Sam has been able to effortlessly unarm him in their past two encounters, a few acidic remarks here and there that just jabbed those sharp sticks exactly where it hurt. Raiden is by no means emotionally unflappable, but he hadn't expected his convictions to crumble so easily under Sam's barrage of truths.

So Raiden closes his eye.

You know what? Not this time, pal.

Ignoring his internal voices, Raiden levels a glare and gives Sam a slow, steely shake of the head '_no_'; _no fuck your shit I'm not listening to that crap again_—

"Enough of your mind games and philosophical bullshit," Raiden growls, edging dagger-like hate spurs at his enemy. "Is that all you do?"

The samurai lets out another chuckle of amusement. "Avoiding the question, eh?" When Sam points his blade at his opponent, the amusement is gone. "Leave your family, Jack. They're too good for you, a killer tainted in blood. Come back to the only home that you have—the battlefield."

(Don't listen to him, don't listen to him—)

"_Shut the fuck up!_" Raiden roars. "You don't know _shit_ about me!"

The world is suddenly in motion and Raiden realizes he's charging towards Sam in livid rage. Sam's weapon meets Raiden's head-on, their swords crossing to form the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet. There is a brief power struggle to gain dominance over the other before they separate once more. Raiden's heels grind into the ground just like his teeth grind together in his skull; Sam causally steps back and starts swinging around his blade again.

"No good, Jack, no good…" The mirth has noticeably lessened in Sam's voice. "The more you disillusion yourself with your fantasies… the duller your blade becomes. You ought to cast aside these excuses and let your true motivations show."

It would have been too easy for Raiden to curse back, too easy for sharp words to slip from his tongue. They wouldn't sting Sam anyway; insults only bounced off the Brazilian's protective armor of die-hard nonchalance.

"What would someone like you know about motivation?" Raiden rasps, suddenly sick of always being the target of questions.

Sam's eyebrow rises along with his shoulders as if to say, '_me?_'

"You're not actually employed by of Desperado, are you, Jetstream? So why would a cyborg hang around with a so-called 'PMC'? Is it because you support their cause?" —Raiden's gaze narrows— "Or_ maybe_ because teaming up with Desperado meant an unlimited supply of battles and all the bloodshed you could cause while getting a big, fat paycheck for doing your job—slaughtering innocents."

Sam takes in all that Raiden has to throw at him in silence, his expression steadily darkening as Raiden speaks. An emotion mirroring resentment begins to stir in Sam's heart, heat coalescing into molten anger, fueled by cachaça. There's nothing casual about the shift; Sam's visage goes cold, though not a single muscle on his face has twitched. Satisfaction bubbles within Raiden knowing that Sam's armor isn't impermeable to words either.

"Don't you dare group me with you and your lot," Raiden continues, shaping his voice low and rough for added drama, "You and the rest of the Winds are just a bunch of blood-thirsty mercs. I'm not in this just for the thrill of battle. I fight for my ideals_…_ and I'll cut down anyone who gets in the way."

Sam's body smiles, even though he himself, does not.

"Ah, yes. Your favorite words… your sword as a 'tool of justice'…" Sam lowers his head, a couple of breathy chuckles escaping his lips. His gaze slants up sharply, his half-lidded eyes suddenly concealing deadly intent. "Fine then. Show me your 'ideals', Jack." _…and I will show you how futile they really are. _

Sam shifts into a battojutsu stance, beckoning Raiden with a jerk of his chin.

_Bring it_.

With a ripping roar, Raiden barrels towards his opponent.

They're at each others' throats again, the pair of sword-wielders dancing the bloody dance of combat.

Sam is different now. That dark look in his eyes has only intensified, manifesting into something deeply feral and highly aggressive. Sam fights his full 150% this time, meaning Raiden is forced to surpass the margins of his potential if he plans on keeping up with the samurai's swings. Their blades limn the darkness with red and blue, lighting up the night with streaks of fire and bolt-tinged electricity. The clang of metal against metal, the yells, the grunts, the thud of bodies hitting the floor—how the hell has nobody filed a noise complaint yet?

Their blades crossroad and stalemate for the millionth time that hour. At that moment, Raiden hears a '_tch' _escape Sam's mouth. When the Brazilian pulls away, Raiden gets a split-second view of Sam's expression revealing all that's going through his head right there and then—the anger, the disappointment, the mounting frustration, _can't you see that I'm pushing you past your limits, Jack_—

"Not good enough!"

Sam slams the edge of his fist against Raiden's head, sending the blonde spiraling backwards. A hard kick to the chest catapults Raiden halfway across the rooftop, his back skidding against the floor. Sam strides swiftly after him.

"How do you expect to take on these big corporations the way you are right now?" Sam barbs as he closes in on his opponent, his arms spread open mockingly towards Raiden's fallen form. Sam's voice has changed; it's become much rougher and harsher, inured with antagonism and cutting vitriol. His accent barely skirts his words anymore. "You think you can bring down World Marshall with your pathetic morals, your weak sword? Huh?"

"Don't underestimate me!" Raiden snarls, springing up for another attack.

Sam rushes in, weaving through Raiden's blade, his outstretched hand grappling for Raiden's neck.

"Too naïve, Jack!"

_Quick little bastard—!_

Raiden gets ippon seoinaged to the ground. The Murasama's crimson blade is immediately rammed into Raiden's free hand above his head, stabbing Raiden into the floor like a pin in a voodoo doll. Instinctively, Raiden strikes out with his sword—but Sam has a brutal grip on his wrist and slams his arm back down to the floor—and Sam is on top of him, leering down with all the malice of a predator, his eyes hard as his smirk. Vaguely, Raiden stumbles across the realization that Sam weighs absurdly light for a military cyborg.

"You need to have stronger conviction than that if you want to play the role of the hero,_ Jack_," Sam jeers, his voice sharp and punctuating. "Newsflash: saving the brains of those children won't mean anything in the big picture. No matter how much you fight, no matter how many bad guys you take out—more will always rise to fill their seat."

There's something almost sorry about the way Sam says this. If Raiden strains his ears hard enough, he can detect the presence of bitterness sieved through the samurai's words, former regrets and untold life memoirs.

And Sam's eyes… there is so much anger in the man's eyes. But it's not even aimed at Raiden; it's directed towards the world, towards people in Sam's past that Raiden has never made acquaintance with, towards drug cartels and South American mafias and PMCs Sam has been forced to join and _stays_ with so he could destroy them from the inside.

"It's a Sisyphean struggle, Jack. A single man cannot change all the evil and corruption in this world his just his sword. In the end, all you are nothing more than a mere _speed bump_ to criminal organizations."

"…I can… try," Raiden grits out.

"Heh." A sneer blooms on Sam's rugged face. "Then I suppose it's my job as the bad guy to stop you, _hero_."

Sam withdraws his sword from Raiden's hand, eliciting a hiss from the cyborg as blood seeps from the gash. Raiden's pain inhibitors cauterizes the sensation to mere a sting, but three decades of experiencing every cut and burn like a normal human has kept intact the instinct to react to a wound as if he actually felt it to its fullest.

Raiden barely finishes exhaling a choppy breath when the crimson blade appears in front of his face. On impulse, Raiden sword hand jolts to block the blade, but Sam's fingers are wrapped around Raiden's wrist, applying crushing pressure to his midcarpal joint, and it takes everything within Raiden just to keep a hold on his sword right now. The Murasama drifts away to the side for the moment, its eerie glow still rimming Raiden's peripheral vision as he fixes his gaze on the Brazilian, scanning Sam's next move.

"In our last battle, I robbed you of an eye and an arm… what shall I take this time, hm?" Sam leans in closer, his breath wafting threats and promises against the only remaining human part of Raiden's body. "Another limb? How about a leg? Or maybe I'll just carve out that other eye of yours?"

This close up, Raiden can get a good look at every detail on his rival's face. His attention rivets to the the jagged scar on Sam's left eye. A dim wisp of wonder rises in the back of his mind about the origins of that scar.

(_"A soldier is nothing without his eyes."_)

"What say you, _pretty boy_?" Sam hisses between clenched teeth.

Raiden sucks in a breath.

"I told you…"

He headbutts the bastard in the face.

"**…_don't underestimate me!_**"

Sam reels backwards with a pained grunt, arms flailing, his body elevating just enough for Raiden to slip out from underneath the samurai. An eye blink—and Raiden has his high-frequency blade in his feet, grabbing the sword hilt with one of his heels. Bracing his body weight on his hands, Raiden puts all his might into thrusting his leg vertically up and crescent kicking Sam in the jaw. The Brazilian soars sky-high into the air—but he gains control of his body just before he starts descending, flips, and lands on his feet some distance away. A thin cascade of blood splatters to the ground from the slash on his chin; activating his sensor visor to serve as a stopgap shield was the only thing that saved Sam's head from being bisected from Raiden's kick. Quick little bastard.

Sam regards his cyborg opponent, who is armed to the teeth and ready to continue, with a wary stare. Sam cops a feel at his chin, peers at the blood on his hand, and then looks at Raiden.

Sam does not even try to hide his incredulity. He spreads his arms wide open in his signature pose, silently gesticulating atomic levels of _what the hell was __that_ to Raiden and an invisible audience behind them. His blade swings right along with him through the entire act. But despite all this, Sam looks pleased. A flicker of warmth returns to his eyes and his smirk loses a bit of its hard edge. Sam tips his head at Raiden—a gesture of acknowledgment.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" Sam's voice is accented again too, that silky Brazilian timbre returning to his speech. "That's one hell of an improvisation on taekwondo."

Raiden surveys the samurai for a moment before he lowers his blade and flexes his shoulders. He tosses Sam a glance.

"Hn. I could say same for you." Sam's judo is like CQC on steroids.

It's warrior admiration at its finest.

Sam's combat demeanor dissolves into his usual laid-back amiability: this fight is over. With his lips quirking just a touch, Sam tucks away his eerily glowing blade into its guntrigger sheath and Raiden is sad to see it go.

"You're running away?" Raiden can't seem to muster out the words as a taunt.

A causal shrug. "Call it a tactical retreat…"

Still facing his blonde rival, Sam takes several steps backwards. He leaves a thin trail of blood in his wake, nothing that a quick rainfall can't wash away. Finally, Sam's feet perch on the edge of the rooftop.

Raiden's eye widens slightly. _Oh, you've got to be kidding me…_

Sam flashes his shit-eating grin. "We'll meet again, no doubt. I'll be waiting, Jack!"

And he jumps.

Wasting no time, Raiden jets over to the side of the building. He watches the retreating form of Samuel Rodrigues scuttle down the fire escape and spring off into the night.

"…asshole," Raiden grumbles, peering at the darkness below.

The bastard didn't even take his alcohol with him.

* * *

_**A/N: **So I'm watching Sam's final fight with Raiden and gods he's so **mean** to Raiden! And the guy's voice goes really gruff during this fight... Sam baby why did you have to die?  
_

_Sam_

_sam_

_sam_

_please come back to life bb_


End file.
